the burning days
These are the days of raspberry whispers
and magnolia kisses on sunburned cheeks.
A tender riot shakes these streets,
these quiet, quaking trees.
I have felt every morning break in two,
a riot of color and the succumb of the sidewalk.
This interlude splinters,
leaving shards in my palms.
A newborn star is curled on my tongue,
bracing on the roof of my mouth.
The colors are kind to him, I say.
Kinder than they ever are to me.
He is boy–
friend of colors.
Like gold and blood red.
Boy smokes dandelions in summers arms,
sucks dreams from her breasts,
turns those dreams into butterflies,
A butterfly in his palm, closing a fist around it.
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